


Scarless

by BackStabber128



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Character Development, Character Growth, Emotional Conflict, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Manga Spoilers, Post-Timeskip, Pre-War, War Themes, headcanons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22483030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BackStabber128/pseuds/BackStabber128
Summary: ......................................................If scars could heal, shouldn't past mistakes heal, too?[[Based on Armin's mental breakdown in 125]]
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	1. Scarless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it wasn't obvious enough from the summary, this story started out after I thought about Armin's "mental breakdown" back in chapter 125.  
> Especially since 126 is right around the corner, and I'm sure there will be much more calamity once it drops. (Which it almost already has.)
> 
> I'm sure Armin's lack of confidence will be resolved by then -- either because of Annie or Gabi, or even the whole crew of characters they're bound to encounter.
> 
> The stress is something that was clearly built up for the past few years in the story. I felt like I wanted to touch on it since this fandom is quick to jump to conclusions when a character reaches their limit. It's kind of sad, really.
> 
> So, of course, this is Armin-centric and dives into those said insecurities, where they originated and ect.
> 
> There's a few twists and turns, but it relatively remains loyal to the events of the manga.
> 
> Anyways, please enjoy and don't hesitate to leave feedback!

It seemed like a blurred memory.

  
  


A hazy, yet horrifyingly clear nightmare his younger self thought up while he slept alone in the barracks.

Or at least, it appeared to be.

But past the surface -- as if diving into the murky waves of a black sea -- it was real. 

There was too much touch, sight, scent, and sound to it. And a whirl of conflicting emotions, too much, ones that made him feel odd waves of sorrow, as well as disgust.

It was still so clear to him.

The way his heart thumped frantically, fingers quivering with anticipation, gun wobbling as he practiced aiming at a small hole in the battleship’s deck. 

There was an overpowering stench of salt water and dead fish. A bleached, phantom blue sky with no splatters of pretty clouds to distract him of what was approaching.

And lastly, an indescribable sick feeling he had that resembled seasickness, and caused him to hurl over the railing once it reached its peak. 

However, he wasn’t the only one suffering through the journey. His squad of three and a half years were beside him. So were countless others from various ranks. 

At one point, he felt a familiar, tender touch rub at his shoulder. He didn’t have to look up to know who it was. He could imagine the cool, aged, mosaic silver eyes, the rosy pink lips drawn into a tight line, the sharp, paper thin blades at her sides -- the ones the girl was capable of wielding with grace, ease, precision -- She made it look so easy, like the flutter of a feather, all with the intention to protect the ones she loved.

Mikasa said nothing, but didn’t need to. Armin had been around her for so long by then, roughly eight long months or a year -- He knew she understood how he felt. 

They were both seeking guidance, comfort, willpower, all the things Eren left behind when he left.

All of which the duo managed to find in each other after so long of searching. It stayed that way for awhile. 

The boat stuttered and fumbled into the smooth sand of the new country’s shore. The scent of fresh gunpowder emerged -- the foul taste salt water somehow becoming saltier -- as new bullets bounced, ricocheted off the bulletproof metal of their ship. 

The steel barrier between them collapsed like stacked cards. Armin’s once fulfilled dream of returning to the peaceful, serene ocean blanched into a genocidal nightmare.

Once stainless, ceaseless, powerful ocean tides from his memory were long gone. All deteriorated in the instant Armin and his team caught sight of their surroundings. 

Lifeless bodies floated and bobbed in the water like orphaned sticks and seaweed. The sand on the beach was glossed with deep crimson and even more blended with the people in the water. 

It was like some sort of sick joke.

A mockery of nature. 

Armin's thoughts berated and rattled in his head, disbelieving. 

To become one with the ocean, one with  _ nature _ \-- should have been a simple, peaceful thought. Being at peace sounded a lot better than seeing it with his own eyes. 

The dead weren’t even recognizable anymore. 

Come to think of it, he didn’t even know their  _ names.  _

Mindlessly, Armin wondered if that was how he would’ve ended up if he was never a titan shifter. 

  
  
  


Nameless and forgotten.

  
  
  
  


….

  
  
  


The chill of the piercing night air bit into his skin like shards of ice. 

Brooding shapes next to the pale blue light of the window did nothing to ease the unpleasant sensation. Nor did it halt the bombarding thoughts battling back in forth in Armin's head.

With an aggravated huff, he shuffled free of his blankets and gazed up at the pale, dingy ceiling above him. His eyes tracked every scrape and crack carved up the thick plaster.

Rain rolled down the window's glass with lazy strides. 

He could still hear it slap and patter into the boot-sunken soil outside.

  
  


His thoughts flushed and blanched like polaroid pictures unraveling behind his eyes.

Hopelessness, lonesome, an eerie emptiness that Armin couldn’t explain if he tried. There was fear, too. A searing, claustrophobic feeling that clenched tight at his throat.

Like the jaws of some mighty, surreal beast clamping down on him. Like a ghost of a man he killed squeezing him by his windpipe, digging thin fingernails into his skin deep enough to draw blood.

  
  


Fear. Or perhaps, something more than that. 

Something much like the teases of peace and harmony dangling so far from his fingertips. Thoughts of having a chance, a slight possibility of his wishes coming true. 

That was it, Armin decided.

The chill was truth.

The mattress groaned and popped as the 18 year old broke free of his blankets. Succumbing to his restless thoughts for the first time in what felt like forever.

His bare feet hit the floor like cinder blocks while he strode carefully from his bed. He peeked his nose outside his bedroom door, eyes flicking left and right, senses mindful not to alert any lingering soldiers.

\---

The lamp on the restroom counter flicked alive with a few licks of flame. 

The light wasn’t much, but enough to illuminate the sink and mirror a deep amber yellow. The sink water gushed a gorgeous gold as it seeped through the boy’s fingers.

Then, it gleamed like a pool of hot caramel in his palms, or sparkling cider, as he splashed his face clean.

Armin's eyes locked with the wide, frazzled, tired blue eyes in the mirror. They grazed over the water droplets clinging to soft, milky white skin. Tracked for any forgotten battle scars hidden by the mess of golden hair that framed his brow. 

Scars that were now mended and healed over -- He realized with a surge of conflicting emotions -- The knicks and cracks in his skin blended finely over with everything else.

Armin searched his reflection for any trace of hope on his face. Any glimpse of determination or a slight resemblance of a man he hoped he would grow to be. 

There was none.

Nothing but eager childlike eyes searching for something that wasn't there. 

There was a part of him who thought there could be a way for him to live up to expectations. To be devoid of sympathy, empathy, of the burden of that sick feeling in his chest whenever he did something against his morals.

To be responsible for the lives at the mercy of his decisions, the ones that would inevitably crumble from a slight  _ tap _ of his finger tips.

To be strong, ruthless, worthy of being admired and loved and hated and looked up upon. To take responsibility.

Like Erwin. 

But he wasn't Erwin. 

He would never be Erwin.

When Armin looked at himself in the mirror, he didn't see the wits, achievements, dreams, strengths, growths, possibilities for a better future...

He saw a failure. Nothing more than that same petrified cadet he was the day he was revived. The day his second life began.

Clueless. Inexperienced. Dumbfounded. Overwhelmed. A boy that was forced to bite off far more than he could chew.

However, Armin could never bring himself to imagine an alternate reality where Erwin was chosen instead. 

Couldn’t imagine the sight of his old commander stirring to the news of being chosen over a child’s life. 

The same bright-eyed and tactful boy he had counted on to lead the final battle. The one who succeeded and prevailed at the price of his own life.

_ 'Scorched and charred, hardly recognizable.' _ Armin remembered Levi telling him.

He could barely comprehend the words, himself.

  
  


Nor did he try to think of Eren and Mikasa. 

How devastated they would be. How they could do nothing to prevent their friend’s demise. His suicide. His sacrifice. 

Because it never happened.

Instead, here Armin was three years later. No more than a shell of what he was capable of. Those feeble, curses of insecurities threatening to seep through nonexistent cracks, spill through the thick walls he had built around himself since that horrible day.

Would Erwin be proud? Ashamed? 

Would he wish that the choice had been different just like Armin did now?

The soldier knew he couldn’t let himself crumble when people were depending on him. He needed to be strong, needed to at least try to fulfill the destiny that was tainted upon him. An unforgiving fate.

Despite its flaws, there was some silver lining. 

That was what some of his friends called it, anyways.

On the surface, he may have seemed like the same short, puny runt from all those years ago -- albeit with a haircut and maybe one or two more inches in height -- but deep down, past the soft features and riddled deep into the curves of his veins, he was a monster. 

A massive, skinless, fleshy beast capable of lethal destruction with the most fitting nickname of them all:

_ The God of Destruction. _

If Eren were there, perhaps he would remind Armin otherwise. That he was the same as he was before the serum injection and that the decision was Levi's, alone. 

Eren wasn’t wrong. But everytime Armin made a mistake of short-sight or cowardice, he couldn’t help but wonder. 

_ What would Erwin do? _

Armin briefly mentioned the topic around Mikasa.

He made sure to slip along the edges of the problem so she wouldn’t be concerned. She didn’t deserve to be. There was only so much she could do if he told her. 

With Eren gone and the world at the edge of war, they had enough to worry about.

There was too much warfare and bloodshed on the horizon for anyone to coddle Armin’s insecurities, he knew that. 

It was a distraction. A distraction no one had time for. He was sure many of his friends would feel the same way. 

And it was easy to keep his emotions all bottled up when there was already so much else to keep their attention.

  
  


….

  
  


Armin’s thoughts wandered back to his lone practice days. Recalled the rolls of thunder bellowing through the thick silver blankets in the sky.

The rain pummeled the soil like bullets tearing vertically through the serene, autumn glade. 

It had been roughly a year or so since it happened, but the soldier could still remember it clear as day.

It was a few nights after Eren left them, and the news of a fresh war arising struck him and the 104th like the crack of a whip.

Armin had isolated himself from them again in a vain attempt to clear his head. Trying to put his so-called ‘brilliant mind’ to work and piece together why Eren abandoned them -- and right after the announcements of more discrimination and hatred were spat upon them, of all times.

He abandoned them, without any signs, clues, or words of farewell. 

Armin couldn’t help but wonder why. 

Why did he leave? 

Was it his fault?

The Marleyans’? 

The world’s? 

Was it because he never confronted Eren of his feelings deeper than,  _ ‘Is everything alright?’ _

Did he ask too late?

Did he not understand? 

Was Eren's departure inevitable? 

Was he planning on leaving all along?

There were so many questions yet no clear answers. Armin ended up shrieking his inquiries up into the air, almost expecting some higher form or celestial being to return his calls. 

But all he heard was his own, angry, pathetic pleads bouncing back at him. 

The trees refused to answer.

The blond recalled blasting through the forest, practicing snapping back and forth and pretending the dark, foggy silhouettes were his enemies, or better yet, his fears. 

Faceless and nameless beings lurking, all with the intent to drive him mad and cause the death of his last remaining loved ones. Attempt to erase all of his happy memories and the strength that kept him going for as long as he had.

But soon, those monsters morphed into humanoid beings -- ones with faces, spirits, fear in their eyes, with memories, friends, and families of their own.

The glimpse made Armin falter, but he squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to steady himself. 

It didn’t matter who they were. Didn’t matter that they were people with pride and dreams of their own, despite the hate and determination that filled their hearts. That's what everyone told him, anyways.

But weren’t Eldians no better? 

Were they so different after all?

It didn’t matter if they were no worse or better than them, regardless of the peace-making strategy Armin’s mind was sputtering to think up. 

Sacrifices needed to be made. 

That was one thing Erwin’s death taught him. 

\--

It didn’t take long for the heavy laps of rain to spark the climax of of his 3DM gear’s furious strokes. Soon, Armin became so exhausted that he mistook the sparse shrubs for actual Marleyan soldiers.

They were everywhere, surrounding him. Ready to shoot him out of the sky and make him plummet through the branches of trees like an unlucky bird during duck season. 

Maybe they already killed his team and he was running away. Fleeing like the coward he thought he was. All because he couldn’t bring himself to kill them. All because he would rather spare the life of a stranger than one of his own. 

Armin could almost hear the sound of rifles cocking and reloading. The sound of harsh, racist berates, while they judged a soldier that was all but a foe to them. 

Just like those ruthless boys from all those years ago. The ones who threw meaningless fists, kicks, and sneers as they mocked his beliefs. Or even the older graduates shoving him in the halls, teasing him for his small build and wimpy strength later in the military. 

Everything he couldn’t control.

All of them stopped eventually, whether they left for a better life or just plain vanished off the face of the Earth. 

He had forgotten what they said for awhile, their words all just mocking voices in the back of his head. But they always came back when his emotions were at their worst state.

Like now, when Armin felt like he was being pulled, sinking into the thick tar-like sludge of a polluted part of an ocean shore. How the too-warm water would slurp at his legs as he trudged through the thick swamp.

_ ‘I’m not weak.’ _ He remembered hissing at himself with spite. Trembling as he stumbled through an isolated alleyway. Crumbs and specks of fresh, dark, ugly bruises bloomed under the hem of his shirt collar. His lower lip and cheek were swollen and a bloodied scrape next to his eye stung at him everytime he blinked. 

As each day passed, the wounds would get deeper as the bullies became braver and braver. And each day, he would return home the same: Beaten, bruised, feeling both victorious and unfulfilled, craving the familiar home scent of sweet ginger cinnamon. 

He usually embraced his parents and grandpa the instant he barged through the door. That was back when his true family were the only comfort he had. 

His long-gone mother’s soothing touch and two seas of concerned eyes greeted him one day. Her wavy blonde locks were pulled back into her messy, signature ponytail. 

Once calloused, hardworking palms grew gentle as she pulled Armin into her arms. Her hardened eyes met his, unwavering, and the young boy couldn’t bring himself to meet them. 

“What happened?” She asked, causing Armin to bite the inside of his unbruised cheek. He managed to force eye contact for a few excruciating moments, blumbering a lie through his lips, “I fell.”

“...Really?” The woman tested, peering straight through his words, “Again?”

Armin reluctantly nodded with a short hum, pointing at the dirt and skid marks on his knees for emphasis. His mother merely shook her head and brushed her son’s bangs back from his big, broken blue eyes. 

“You can’t let those kids beat on you because you’re different. You have to put them in their place, tell them to leave you alone and walk away." She said, "There’s no reason to accept their fists as proof that they’re wrong. You should already know that you’re smarter.”

He remembered her words in the back of his mind. A faint, hazy memory. It felt like a foggy, bittersweet dream from the past.

Armin recalled his bubbly father popping up from around a corner. The man’s receding platinum blond hair was combed back as always, the telling bald spot Armin teased about was capped with a small black bowler hat. His denim overalls were splotched with traces of oil and a long piece of lumber was mounted over his shoulders.

Armin remembered the man commenting on how he was much stronger than he looked, and how his strength would lead him a long way in life. Lead to many opportunities.

That was back before they discovered Grandfather’s books in Armin’s luggage. It was then, his parents understood why so many other children treated him so different, like an outcast. 

That was when he learned that they were fascinated with the outside world, too. And they were willing to risk their lives for it. Willing for freedom to take their lives. Their son, their family, their life from them. And it did.

It took awhile until Armin found out what happened to them. All he knew was that they left for a trip and never came back. At first, Armin felt betrayed. He thought they had left him on purpose in order to pursue a greater goal of freedom. 

But now, his older self pondered if they just didn’t want to put his life in danger. They wanted him to live. And they also wanted to experience their dreams.

At the young age of seven, Armin was forced to accept the harrowing truth that took most people decades to learn. 

That you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

In a way, it reminded him of Eren.

First toys, books, paper, pencils, then strangers, acquaintances, family, and family again. There were so many valuable things to lose. But the most important thing that could be lost, was himself. 

That was one thing he hadn’t lost yet.

  
  


….

  
  


The metal blade punctured and sliced into the trunk of a tree with an oddly satisfying _ ‘ker-thunk.’  _

The lumber very nearly split in two as Armin glided right past it, his mind fully set on working himself to the limit. Seeing nature’s gorgeous forearms reaching out for him as enemy soldiers with prey in their sights. Like a child in his backyard playing “hero” with a stick and his paranoid mind.

The clamp of his 3DM gear winded around the thick branch of a tree a good thirty feet away. His heart thumped hard as he spun, blades extended and thwapping through the knots of slick, ripe vines surrounding him. Clumps of which dropped like dead weights down to the forest floor a considerable height below. But Armin hardly noticed.

As if the world spun clockwise in slow motion, he stared at the morning sun peeking out through drapes of autumn leaves. Blots of wine red, sweet orange, and golden yellow flooded with contrasting colors. Puffs of pink, like strawberry cotton candy, streaked the awakening sky. 

The thin twirls of wooden limbs winded around like crooked cords of metal. Like the destruction discovered beyond the walls after Bertholt’s death. The remains of what was once their beloved home. Now, it was only a fond, childhood memory.

The sight of pure natural beauty was all it took to sweep Armin off his feet, away from his cruel reality.

It was the only place he let his guard down while he was separated from his squad. Letting himself succumb to the pleasant sound of drizzling rain, the smell of fresh damp forest air...

Little did he know, even after all of his years of sulking in the quiet space, even the most peaceful, undisturbed places had dangers of their own. 

Armin turned his head just in time to greet the massive wooden girth of an oak tree. He smacked hard, the wind being knocked straight from his lungs, he saw blank shapes and disjointed colors, and couldn’t react fast enough to grapple onto the tree again.

Instead, limp limbs let gravity take hold as the cord popped free. A far too late jolt of pain sprung the blond’s supple fingers back into action. 

He tried to activate the machinery one more time, but the ground came at him far too fast. 

Something snapped as marsh and flesh collided. The floor rapidly gave way under the new weight, and Armin swore in panic as he dropped over the edge of a hill he hadn’t seen. 

The mud was ice-slick and the rain never stopped pounding. The world spiraled like a toppled merry-go-round. Blades of boulders stabbed into skin, craggy wooden knives of trees sliced until the bitter Earth kissed bruises and bit blood into any place that met it.

The horrible vertigo came to an abrupt end when Armin splashed into a pool of thick muck. Unluckily, he landed face first.

A telltale throb up his forearm sent bubbles boiling up from the mud's surface. Armin cursed himself again. It had happened many times before. A slip of a foot, broken balance, a distraction, fear of heights, broken bones, sprained ankles… All earned by a runt’s attempt to build himself up to a fit soldier. 

More obscenities left Armin’s throat in bursts, as he discovered his right arm twisted at an awkward angle. Bent, like a broken metal beam separating his childhood world and the present.

His wrist had begun to swell into a tight knot while the rest of his arm seemed to darken into a ripe purple. At first, Armin’s mind rushed with fear of infection, or maybe the limb being at risk for amputation.

His own body seemed to slap him in the face as the injury sizzled and muscles curdled beneath scratched skin. In only a few beats, the bone shifted slowly back in place. The ugly, blood splattered slices carved up his arm began to fade, too.

Angry red became a flushed pink before melting back into a milky white. No scars. No knicks. No traces of wounds or any past mistakes.

It was strange. Something the blond still hadn’t gotten used to after three years.

  
  


He didn’t think he ever would.

  
  
  


###

  
  
  


Time flew by so fast. Minutes like seconds, and hours like minutes. The team quickly learned that there was no time to think when strangers were no farther than five feet away from where they stood. 

There was only time to act. 

The soldiers at the sea shore were the Survey Corps first battle. Their first introduction to what they were bound to sink into. As if they were testing the temperature of a pool they were about to dive in. 

In this case, the water was hot, scalding hot, boiling. But they had to jump in, regardless. 

The first few weeks they were there, Armin saw things he thought were impossible. Once, he was squatting on a small tree stump in a military base, tying the laces of his boot into a tight knot. 

The blaze of a campfire whipped back and forth, like the fingers of those foreign musicians.

Their thin, steady fingertips, knobbed with age, strumming passionately on the strings of a guitar.

Some instruments were different. Armin faintly recalled the names of a handful; clarinets, violens, pianos, harmonicas...

Hot crisps of ash and ember sputtered into the night from the fire. Some wisped in the wind and clung to the fingertips of trees. As if the ends were candle wicks, they glowed bright, before flickering out with the whimper of the wind.

The heat of the fire flushed Armin’s face a warm pink. The endless sizzle and  _ ‘ssss’  _ blurred away the chatter of the other soldiers behind him. 

All the blond could hear was the clucks of hidden animals and subtle rises and dips in the breeze. The silent crackle of flames and long awaited warmth was enough to lull the fatigued soldier to sleep. 

He had already tucked his face into the crook of his elbows, heavy eyes nodding off…

  
  


...until he noticed Mikasa sitting a few logs away from him. 

The glimpse of stark pomegranate splotches seeping through a bandage over her chest caught his attention. He blinked, trying to see if it was just a figment of his imagination.

She was bleeding _. _ And as far as Armin could remember, she never bled. Not even in the most dire of situations. Only feeble bumps and bruises, maybe a few breaks of skin. 

“Are you ok?” He asked on impulse. 

The blond tracked her face for any clues of doubt as she replied.

“Yeah.” 

Mikasa paused in silence before tossing a pinch of leaves into the fire. 

Her body seemed phantom-like as she watched the blaze ignite to life, the leaves crackled and sparked, burning until only a thin spine of each remained. 

“It’s strange." The female continued, lapping at her chapped lips as the flames fell yet again, “It’s strange how… normal things feel after you do them over and over again."

Mikasa’s words wandered a bit, her nimble fingers chipped at a sheath of wood in her hands, shaving it clean of bark. "Even when our target changes, it’s like going to the next phase...”

Her voice softened, and a speck of wood flicked into the fiery embers, “Sometimes, it gets to the point where…"

Specks of wood dropped like forgotten bread crumbs, "...we forget they're even human."

Mikasa’s head tilted to face Armin, as if she was finally acknowledging his presence. 

“You know what I mean?”

Her friend blinked at her once more, before nodding. He clicked together what she was implying, recalling how she leapt in to shield him from the blast of bullets earlier. How he shoved her away at the last second. 

Armin remembered shaking his head frantically, stammering that he could heal, he could  _ heal _ \-- right before he took a fatal blow to his stomach, which replaced his words with blood.

The sharp, metallic taste full of foul irony. 

Mikasa had gotten struck, too, the blond realized. That was where the blood came from. 

Wounds.

Bullet wounds. 

Because of him.

Maybe a bullet hit her afterwards, when she caught him and guided him back to the safety of the trench.

Maybe shrapnel bounced off her armor or even bounced off of  _ him _ \----he shuddered at the thought.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” He said, squeezing his knees tight to his chest, “It’s… it's probably going to scar.” 

“Don’t apologize.” Mikasa interjected, “I did it on impulse. It was my decision, not yours. If you weren’t able to heal right then---or if he hit a weak point, you’d be dead.”

Armin let the statement sink in. 

Recalled the searing scorch of pain, so similar to one he felt in the past, as if he was being ripped apart. 

That rancid, steel, metallic taste on his tongue, body dropping lax to the floor, blissful blackness.

It could have happened so fast. 

So instant and ruthless.

It was terrifying.

“But I can’t, you know that.” Armin insisted, expression sterning, “And you can. You shouldn’t put yourself in danger in order to protect me. It's not fair… for our team."

He paused, contemplating.

"If… if we lost you, we would be weakened significantly. You’re one of the few soldiers here who acts with action, to prove that the rest of us can do the same. We can’t afford to lose another because of…”

Arlert trailed off, concluding his ramble off in his head. ‘... _ me.’ _

Mikasa shifted in her seat, clearly teetering between being flattered and reminding him it was her decision again. 

She thoughtfully tinkered at a strap around her wrist. It was her turn to fall into a contemplative silence. 

“You’re wrong." She declared out of the blue, "The reason I got struck… wasn’t because of you." 

The leather fluttered into the flames like a silk feather. "It was because I hesitated.” 

Her blond friend's eyes went wide, illuminated gold.

“When I saw that man standing there," Mikasa continued, "I remembered what you told me: That we were all the same, just soldiers with different perspectives, fighting on opposing sides."

Her hands shifted onto her knees, "When I saw that soldier, I saw how afraid he was. He didn't seem like the others. I still remember what he wore, too. The straps, the gear, black military boots… He had this strange grass suit on his back, which was… flayed at the ends." 

The girl's frown somehow deepened. 

"I thought about his family, his past, why he was there -- all in that split second. It was almost like… I was waiting for him to pull the trigger, to prove himself as a threat. I felt like I needed to know for sure.”

“That was… before he shot?” Armin tested beside her. 

Mikasa nodded. “It’s like I said. After I killed him, and another and another… I started to lose count. It got easier and easier. As horrible as it is, it’s…” The raven haired woman shook her head, falling quiet.

It was Armin’s turn to nod, checking back on the dying embers between them. 

“I know.” He said, licking his teeth before adding, “I didn’t want to shoot him either.”

Mikasa joined his gaze once more. She twisted her hands into her lap, rubbing them against the cool breeze. “I guess…” She reluctantly added,, “...it’s good to keep some humanity, after all. It’s what keeps us human, right?"

Armin peeped up at her, voice hesitant.

“Yeah.” He decided, 

" Yeah, I… I guess it does.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be afraid to leave your thoughts in the comments below.
> 
> Comments are the most motivational thing readers can offer so please don't hesitate, I'd love to discuss! 
> 
> Also, stay tuned for more chapters themed around the incoming manga updates. I'm sure there will be plenty to write about soon.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!^^


	2. Breaking a Beam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again fellow readers. As you may know, I took a long, much-needed break from writing once this corona virus crap struck. Since school let out, it was hard for me to get back on my routine. But of course, I'm back finally and ready to make up for my 2 month absence.
> 
> Anyways, let me know how this turned out. The majority of this chapter takes place in 126 and flashbacks. I tried a bit at comedy at the beginning, but trust me, I really dived in the pain for this one lmao
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

After his next few days at the military camp, Armin learned that despite his healing capabilities, he had no immunity towards any illness that came next. 

He found that out the hard way when he awoke with Mikasa -- _of course Mikasa_ \-- blotting a soft rag over his forehead.

There was a vibrant ache in his muscles and churning deep within his stomach. Dizziness, nausea, agony, all combined. He rolled up in his military bunk, curling into a tight, miserable ball in a vain attempt to escape the misery. 

Mikasa attempted to reach for his shoulder, but the blond had already groggily batted her away with an elbow. He shoved his arms over his head, muttering something about ‘ingesting teargas’ and ‘poison in the water’ before his caretaker cut him off.

“You have a fever.” She said, “Probably brought on by infection or spilled stomach acid, I hate to say it.” 

The boy merely groaned and shifted on his side. He tugged the sheets over his head, soon regretting it, however, as a new wave of heat came over him.

Mikasa gave him a hand by ripping the thick blanket off of him like a strip of old tape. On cue, Armin’s fingers snapped to the cloth of his nightshirt: a thin, bluish-grey striped, long sleeved cotton material. 

He automatically rolled up his sleeves, using the tips of his toes to roll the calves of his pants up to his knees.

“It’s not fair.” He grumbled like a disobedient child, voice thick with sick and sleep, “...Why don’t you ever get sick?”

“I don’t know.” Mikasa stated, simple and honest as always. “I guess I’ve just always been lucky.”

Armin sucked his teeth sourly, “I wish I was.” 

"Surviving a fatal injury with only a fever and a treatable infection should be considered lucky, but whatever you say."

"It depends on how you look at it, I guess."

Silence soon overtook the room as Mikasa continued swirling the rag over Armin’s brow. It wasn’t necessarily helping with the pain and _walls knows_ what other lingering issues there could be -- but the sensation was soothing, nonetheless.

The boy shut his eyes and decided to soak in the lapse of temporary peace. Letting his mind bask into timeless serenity while he could -- Like letting those ceaseless, powerful ocean waves take him in, as if he were one of their own. Numb to the scalding of salt up his nose and stinging his tongue -- For he knew the peace could only last for so long.

Finally, Mikasa released a breath through her nose, peering back down at him through thick lashes.

“This… sort of reminds me of back then,” She mentioned vaguely, “Like those days at the shelter. With you and Eren always getting sick all the time… And how Eren always stole medicine from the markets no matter what we told him. He was always so stubborn and hard-headed… Well, you both were in different ways.”

She combed through his golden bangs with the wet rag again, dragging the cloth gently in smooth, relaxing circles.

Mikasa chuckled lightly, “Remember that time you refused to take the stolen pills and Eren snuck it into your juice? That didn’t mix well, apparently.”

“It's… er, not a very pleasant memory…” Armin noted with a shiver, “I still haven’t forgotten the taste.”

“That reminds me of our next step,” Mikasa jested. Her opposite hand rose to reveal a glass of a clear, sparkling fluid. 

She hovered it over his lips, offering a single word of instruction: “Drink.”

Armin inspected it uncertainly, eyes wide as if the medicine were that same pill-juice he had the misfortune of drinking long ago. His lips parted, seemingly about to object, before a much heavier and brasher voice cut him off.

“Shut up and drink it, Armin! You’re not the only one feeling like you’ve been hit by a truck…!"

It came from several bunks away, but the two companions recognized it far too well.

“Jean, you’re not helping.” Mikasa scolded, her pupils drew dangerously close to the long-haired light brunette despite him not being in her peripheral vision. 

"Well, this damn metal shard has been stuck in my leg all night. I think I have a right to be a little tired of it." Jean bickered from his spot, flexing his injured leg for emphasis, 

"I don't want the nurses to find out cuz' they'll probably cut my whole damn leg off. And God forbid if Connie finds out…" The male shuddered, glancing over at where his friend was snoring loudly on the other side of the room, "That maniac will rip it out, himself!"

"Will you help me, Mikasa?" Jean pleaded, wielding the most insistent expression he could, "Please?"

Mikasa looked over at him, eyes offering the ever-so-slightest glint of sympathy, before she frowned,

“Not until I’m done here."

In response, Jean merely flopped back into his mattress and groaned with frustration. He clearly wanted to say more, but decided against it. 

Choosing life over death, a wise choice.

Mikasa fixed her attention back on Armin. And sure enough, the intimidating drink in her palm popped up again, “Drink.” She repeated. 

Armin knew from past experiences how unpredictable some medical treatments were. Especially during the time he spent in the infirmary with a broken leg. Back when he _could_ have a broken leg.

He remembered the nasty taste of bleary painkiller hallucinogens. A flavor too much like rotting fruit or that rancid stuff old men smoked in dark alleys. 

Must have been, considering the dose’s frequent black outs into an empty, robotic state. Almost like the sensation of being torn open by a bullet for the first time. It was stuff he would never trust himself with again, only if he absolutely needed to. 

With the thought in mind, he decided to intervene, “What’s in it?”

Mikasa was quick to answer, “Medicine.”

"What kind?”

“The kind that tastes slightly less terrible than the usual. Sweet, like candy, yet bitter, like dark coffee. It will help you feel better.”

The big blue eyes tracked her up and down, left and right, as if searching for some sort of lingering lie among her presence. 

She continued softly, “You can trust me. I’ve been doing this since we were kids, I know what I’m doing.”

Carefully and ever-so reluctantly, the ironic God of Destruction tilted his head back and parted his lips, sipping lightly at the smooth glass. 

That was a title not even Mikasa could get used to. 

Even to her it seemed wrong. Unfitting. Strange. Bizzare. That the same doe-eyed, scrawny, bowl cut haired kid from her memories turned out to be one of the most dangerous, horrifying beasts the cruel world had to offer.

Armin’s shoulders stuttered, he bit back a cough as the ‘dark coffee’ aftertaste kicked in. 

Regardless, he got it down. It wasn’t nearly as bad as he expected. It had a natural flavor, even with the sugary twang -- like syrup or the fine foreign wine he drank once or twice before. The sweetness lingered on his tongue like a broken memory.

"Ok, are you done now?" Jean's voice cut in, brown eyes pleading for mercy. Mikasa nearly rolled her own eyes, but nodded once and stood to her feet.

Armin could only lie there watch in utter terror as his friend shucked the jagged wire free from flesh with her powerful grip.

Jean's face contorted into one of sheer agony as a high pitched, ear-piercing yeep left his teeth. Screwing blanched fingers into the sheets, he managed to fight through the pain.

“What kind of dick-wad struts up on a battlefield wearing _sandals!?_ Who does _that!?”_ He sucked in a breath, “Getting a broken leg from that alone is embarrassing!”

“Maybe it’s a different faction.” Mikasa offered, as casual as ever -- despite single-handedly contributing to her poor comrade’s misery. “More cannon-fodder to use for the front lines. Like the Eldians there, maybe. Bred to die.”

“Like us.” A certain grey-haired soldier quipped from his bunk. Connie sneered stupidly, stretching back and resting his arms behind his head.

Jean merely plopped back down to his mattress and rolled his eyes, “Says the guy who almost died trying to salvage a plastic box.”

Connie jumped to his haunches at that, as if expecting it, “Oh-ho-ho! Not just any plastic box--” 

As if on cue, he plopped the stolen device into his lap, “It’s _deluxe.”_ He rolled the word off his tongue like the punchline of a knock-knock joke, “The kind that picks up music, somehow. I, er... dunno how, but---Trust me,” the boy smacked a fist to his chest, “it would be worth my sacrifice...”

“Tch, yeah. Maybe if we wanted to mourn you by hand-banging to static, it would be worth it.” Jean snorted. He narrowed his brow, “Do you even know how it works?”

_“_ Well, _duh!_ Sure I do.” Connie scoffed, although his trademarked wide eyed and clueless expression told his team otherwise. 

The shorter male jabbed a few fingers at the buttons on top of the machine. All of which resulted in various high-pitched screeches of ear-piercing static. 

“Sure is music to my ears…” Jean muttered, clearly unphased.

As if to battle Kirschtein’s mocking chatter, one clever click of a button replaced the noise with coherent chords.

Everyone's eyes lit up at the impossible miracle, especially Connie's.

_"Voila,"_ He said, gesturing to the radio as if it were a chunk of his own weight in gold, "I’m not a complete idiot!"

The stereo had picked up on some kind of laid back, stylish jazz from a certain area of the port. It was a miracle in and of itself that the machine retrieved it’s range.

Connie set the device on a vacant desk across from them. He appeared fairly pleased with himself as he grooved to the beat.

"Can I get a _'Thank you,'_ for my score, Kirschtein?" He smirked, "Or a _'Thanks for blessing us with this magnificent God-send,'_ maybe?"

Jean huffed, but managed to shake his head in defeat. "Fine, good job. Thanks for… err, brightening up our room with that piece of miraculous trash. If any of us need a cooldown, it… might be useful."

Unfortunately, the speakers then promptly erupted with buzzing again before crackling into silence.

"No!" Connie cried out in anguish. He flipped the box over and tried to mash the buttons again. And of course, nothing happened, "No, no, no, no, no!"

As random and plot convenient as ever, Sasha popped her head up from the next bunk over, a piece of a fresh, buttered loaf between her teeth, "Maybe you could use batteries." She offered.

"What the heck are _batteries??"_ Connie babbled, bewildered. His arms cradled the broken stereo as if he'd just lost a childhood friend.

He spun to his other companion, "Jean, do something!"

The mentioned soldier kicked his crippled leg again for emphasis, "What do you think I can do!?"

"I don't know! But don't just sit there!--This is our only chance of relaxation and happiness, and I refuse to lose it because of some back-washed, lazy, miserable, good-for-nothing horse-face like you--!!"

Jean grit his teeth as if he'd been shot, again, "Urgh, that joke is so _unoriginal…"_

"You're both idiots."

Mikasa stated, as if she suddenly became the squad’s scolding mother. Complete with hands set at her hips and unamused obsidian eyes.

In contrast, Armin was already halfway doubled over, clutching his face and wheezing with laughter at his team’s pointless stupidity. Even if said ‘laughter’ sounded more like he was hacking his lungs out than actually enjoying the moment.

His reaction managed to make Mikasa crack a smile, regardless. 

  
  


\- - -

  
  


The memory slipped by like a gust of zephyr wafting his cape back. The emerald cloth flapped and fluttered, almost as if the bold symbol of the ‘Wings of Freedom’ would sprout and ignite into luxurious pinions of which it was named.

The soldier felt his lips perk up ever so slightly at the long forgotten thought. 

Back when days were bright and nights were short without being riddled by paranoid, mindless rambles of what to do next.

Unlike now.

  
  


Just as soon as the uplifting memory faded away, a much more recent and shameful one took its place.

Armin's gut twisted with unbridled disgust in himself as he tried to grind the distracting thoughts away. Grind them back into the dust and grime settled into the sickly, burbling waters in the pits of his skull. But they kept coming back. 

Like the familiar, bothersome itch of his fringe tickling the bridge of his nose.

It continued spiraling, looping, rewinding -- until he was lugged back into the scene by an invisible force that could only be his humanity.

Armin remembered the unbearable swell in his chest, feeling like it would split at any moment. 

The clenching of his jaw, how every word he spoke had a pressure and tightness to it. Pleading, screaming to be released.

_Just keep your mouth shut._ He remembered urging himself. _You know she feels the same way. Don't put your burden on her shoulders. She doesn't deserve it. Just leave, just leave, just leave, just_ **_leave._ **

It was like sprinkling salt on a flame that already engulfed the lush green barbs of a tree. Pouring vinegar on a wound that was already struck to the bone.

Involuntary strokes of venom seeped out, regardless. As Mikasa kept pressing on, digging deeper towards the challenge he could not yet bear to face.

She knew Armin had no plan of how to save Falco. She knew that he was just desperate for action; Peace, an alliance, assistance, aid, silver lining --- even after the apocalypse came to an end. _Anything_.

She knew him too well.

He reached out for the door handle, so close, fingertips barely three inches away from the deep copper knob when

Mikasa mentioned something she had so many times before. In different orders, words, tones, shifts…

But all meaning the same thing. 

As if it were all she cared for.

  
  


"What should we do… about Eren?"

  
  


Something inside of Armin shattered at the mention. 

Eren. The name suddenly sparked bile on his tongue. A horrid reminder of all the faith he wasted on the one person he thought he understood.

Eren. The name seemed to light a fuse. Like the crisp, wiry oak leaves catching flame in the blades of a fire. Like a crooked, thin wooden door, painted with thick flammable plastic thrown -- bubbling up, popping, sputtering, and engulfing the campsite with gorgeous golden light.

Armin felt the fuse blow, and he whipped around on impulse, so fast and so robotic that he hardly processed that he did.

He was already screaming at her, blasting out each of their problems as if she were the one responsible. He knew she wasn't. But the words wouldn't stop.

Armin could still hear his shouts ringing in his head, _"I don't know!_ And…!! There's nothing we can do about it anyway, _right!?"_

He could still see the hurt in Mikasa's eyes, her speechless face, broken posture. Knowing that she had crossed the line by asking a simple question.

Armin remembered the breath halting in his throat at the sight. The wave of guilt striking him like a relentless ocean tide, only this time, it wasn’t to take him in, but to push him away.

It was at that moment he regretted being there in the first place. Not only did he become the burden that he feared he would be, but also the shadow of what he was expected to become. The same thing that had haunted the depths of his thoughts ever since it was decided.

_“Now, the answer is clear. The one who should’ve been revived… wasn’t me.”_

Armin had raised his voice at her. It may not have been intentional, but he couldn't take it back.

He didn't even apologize. Did he think that his outburst wasn't even worth an _apology?_

His stomach twisted into a tight knot once more, nails biting into his palms as he realized with utter mortification --- Recalling the bitter words, expressionless face, ruthless retorts of betrayal…

  
  


He was no better than Eren.

  
  
  
  


###

  
  
  


The reins of his horse felt like jagged metal wires piercing into his palms. The sunset ended far quicker than he expected. In fact, he hardly noticed it was gone.

The night marred their endless path into eerie darkness, chilled the air nearly arctic, and sent his breath wafting out in wisps of white.

It must have been nearing dusk at this point, he decided.

Armin sighed wearily, sending another thick gust into the frosty air. He hadn't lied to Mikasa. He was exhausted, and overwhelmed. Somehow even more than what he was used to. To the point where he snapped on one of the last people he trusted.

He had finally reached his limit. He could only pretend to be stoic and immune to the calamity for so long. It was like beating a fist into a thin wooden beam. Eventually, it would break. A soldier was no different. People could only take so much.

That was something not many people understood. Much less petrified civilians who could only call out and pray for the military to protect them. Wind soldiers up like dolls and send them into war with wooden swords.

A clicking noise resonated through the still airy, silent night. 

Arlert’s flashlight burst alive, the fluorescent orange glow contrasting the visible black and blue of the night.

It illuminated the weary, yet determined eyes of the little girl beside him. Gabi squeezed tight at the support straps of her horse, gazing out over the bleak horizon.

Her pupils scraped along the strange dip beneath dark clouds, filled with striking teal and turquoise blue. Somewhat like an ocean floating in the sky.

Armin was one to be complaining when there was an even younger child soldier sitting right beside him. One he could still remember clearly from a few weeks ago, the one who witnessed his and Mikasa's confrontation with Eren. And the one who recited broken, conflicted words of surrender, of accepting the price of one's actions. Of one's mistakes.

Now, it seemed like they had something in common. Only, there was a chance she could get her friend back. And with it, a chance of a new alliance. It may not be peace, but it was something.

Armin hated to admit it, but the girl reminded him far too much of Eren for it to be coincidental. She was an awful reminder of what other challenge they needed to face.

So many problems and not enough solutions. He thought maybe, if there was some sort of alliance, if there was a team he could think up a plan with, use all of their perspectives to his advantage, that maybe, _maybe_ \-- there could be a solution.

Maybe it wouldn't be so overwhelming. Or, it could be like back facing the Warriors, but that was different. When everyone's eyes were on him, depending on him, and his mind went blank. 

It would be different if they were working together. That way, at least it would be a bit easier to achieve the impossible. 

But now, he was practically alone. With nothing but desperate, pleading thoughts bouncing in his mind, branching out into different routes to take.

Just like the battle with the Armored and Colossal Titan. 

Armin's ideas were quickly melting into mush and delirious day dreams. He couldn't think. Couldn't _think_. His head was going blank again.

Even the silence was becoming too loud, too distracting. It sounded like static buzzing in his ears, and if he thought about it too hard, it became even louder, almost overpowering.

Like a vacuum sucking all of his thoughts away. Even with the endless _'clop, clop, clop,'_ of horse hooves. The clanking of rubber harnesses under their weight.

He was a soldier. He should've been used to it by then. He shouldn't feel like a child, wanting to curl up and cry selfish tears for himself, even if he was. Even when the cold threatened to freeze those tears into frost that stuck to his cheeks.

  
  


Armin started daydreaming again, figured if he couldn't sleep, he might as well act like it.

Thinking that if, somehow, things could be different. 

Like… like back at that refugee camp a year ago. 

He forgot why they were there in the first place. Something about a little black haired boy with a cap and maybe some refugees from a foreign land. 

Back when they were naïve, curious, adventurous, like normal kids were supposed to be. 

_What changed that?_ Armin wondered, despite knowing exactly who's name was responsible.

Then, he pondered further:

_Why did it have to happen?_

_What's the purpose, other than world genocide?_

_Why was he willing to sacrifice everyone just for them? Were they really worth more?_

Armin didn’t know anymore.

…

  
  


“Do you really want to help me?” 

Gabi asked out of thin air. Armin almost thought it was a random, paranoid voice echoing in his head. Maybe all of the insanity caused him to develop schizophrenia or some other kind of burden from the weight of war. 

But then, the girl decided to speak up again, “Is it because of my friend, or because of yours’?”

The older soldier glanced over at her, only to lock with her piercing green eyes. Far too much like Eren’s. 

But quickly, Armin was able to gain his bearings.

“What makes you say that?”

He merely watched as the girl tinkered with her horse’s reins. “Just curious.” She said, “Not many people would go out of their way to do something like this. And definitely not on horse-back in the middle of the night with some… kid. I don’t think any of the Marleyans from Liberio would, anyways.”

With a sigh, she concluded.

“...I guess we’re all used to being treated like outcasts here.” 

Pity tugged at Armin’s heart at the response. Knowing that at some point long ago, he felt the same way. 

He patted the wiry fur of his own horse, answering mostly out of regret than anything else, “I just wanted to help. To do something before the storm ends. I figured it would be better to act than just watching everything crumble from the sidelines. It… It wouldn’t be fair, if there are any survivors…”

He rubbed a palm across his brow tiredly, before he corrected himself, “There’s already going to be so many fatalities as it is. If there’s an opportunity to prevent some, I… I might as well try.”

The next line slipped out without him even considering it, “I know what it’s like to lose someone and not be able to bring them back. So many, to the point where you don’t even feel anything anymore. Unless, it’s… someone close to you.”

Armin blamed it on fatigue.

Gabi furrowed a brow, casting her gaze down to the forest floor ahead. It was clear she wanted to delve further, to discover the truth behind Eren’s betrayal. But like any wise teenage soldier, she knew that delving into another’s pained feelings would be crossing the line. She said nothing.

So Armin decided to answer for her, “I don’t even know what Eren is anymore.” Tears threatened to build against the heaviness of his eyes, but he blinked them away, “Just thinking about it caused me to snap on the last soldier who understood. There’s… so many problems, too many only to focus on one.”

He thought talking out his feelings to someone would help him feel better, but it only made him feel more guilty.

  
  


Deep down, he wondered if Eren felt the same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the next and final chapter soon! Some of you may or may not be able guess where I'm gonna end this on, so for now, I'll just leave it up to your imagination.
> 
> Don't be afraid to drop a comment and kudos as always. Thank you so much for reading.^^


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